Chapter I: Part 1

A COLLECTION OF OLD ENGLISH PLAYS; VOL. III

In Four Volumes

Edited by

A.H. BULLEN

1882-1889.

CONTENTS:

Preface Sir Gyles Goosecappe The Wisdome of Dr. Dodypoll The Distracted Emperor The Tryall of Chevalry Footnotes

PREFACE.

I have not been able to give in the present volume the unpublished play of Heywood's to which I referred in the Preface to Vol. I. When I came to transcribe the play, I found myself baffled by the villanous scrawl. But I hope that, with the assistance of some expert in old handwriting, I may succeed in procuring an accurate transcript of the piece for the fourth volume.

One of the plays here presented to the reader is printed for the first time, and the others have not been reprinted. I desire to thank ALFRED HENRY HUTH, Esq., for the loan of books from his magnificent collection. It is pleasant to acknowledge an obligation when the favour has been bestowed courteously and ungrudgingly. To my friend F.G. FLEAY, Esq., I cannnot adequately express my gratitude for the great trouble that he has taken in reading all the proof-sheets, and for his many valuable suggestions. Portions of the former volume were not seen by him in the proof, and to this cause must be attributed the presence of some slight but annoying misprints. One serious fault, not a misprint, occurs in the first scene of the first Act of _Barnavelt's Tragedy_ (p. 213). In the margin of the corrected proof, opposite the lines,

"And you shall find that the desire of glory
Was the last frailty wise men ere putt of,"

I wrote

"That last infirmity of noble minds,"

a [mis]quotation from _Lycidas_. The words were written in pencil and enclosed in brackets. I was merely drawing Mr. FLEAY'S attention to the similarity of expression between Milton's words and the playwright's; but by some unlucky chance my marginal pencilling was imported into the text. I now implore the reader to expunge the line. On p. 116, l. 12 (in the same volume), for _with_ read _witt_; p. 125 l. 2, for _He_ read _Ile_; p. 128, l. 18, for _pardue_ read _perdue_; p. 232, for _Is_ read _In_; p. 272, l. 3, for _baste_ read _haste_; p. 336, l. 6, the speaker should evidently be not _Do_. (the reading of the MS.) but _Sis_., and _noble Sir Richard_ should be _noble Sir Francis_; p. 422, l. 12, del. comma between _Gaston_ and _Paris_. Some literal errors may, perhaps, still have escaped me, but such words as _anottomye_ for _anatomy_, or _dietie_ for _deity_ must not be classed as misprints. They are recognised though erroneous forms, and instances of their occurrence will be given in the Index to Vol. IV.

5, WILLOW ROAD, HAMPSTEAD, N.W. January 24, 1884.

INTRODUCTION TO SIR GYLES GOOSECAPPE.

This clever, though somewhat tedious, comedy was published anonymously in 1606. There is no known dramatic writer of that date to whom it could be assigned with any great degree of probability. The comic portion shows clearly the influence of Ben Jonson, and there is much to remind one of Lyly's court-comedies. In the serious scenes the philosophising and moralising, at one time expressed in language of inarticulate obscurity and at another attaining clear and dignified utterance, suggest a study of Chapman. The unknown writer might have taken as his motto a passage in the dedication of Ovid's _Banquet of Sense_:-- "Obscurity in affection of words and indigested conceits is pedantical and childish; but where it shroudeth itself in the heart of his subject, uttered with fitness of figure and expressive epithets, with that darkness will I still labour to be shrouded." Chapman's _Gentleman Usher_ was published in the same year as _Sir Gyles Goosecappe_; and I venture to think that in a passage of Act III., Scene II., our author had in his mind the exquisite scene between the wounded Strozza and his wife Cynanche. In Strozza's discourse on the joys of marriage occur these lines:--

"If he lament she melts herselfe in teares;
If he be glad she triumphs; if he stirre
She moon's his way: in all things his _sweete Ape_."

The charming fitness of the expression "sweet ape" would impress any capable reader. I cannot think that by mere accident the anonymous writer lighted on the same words:--

"Doe women bring no helpe of soule to men?
Why, friend, they either are mens soules themselves
Or the most witty imitatrixes of them,
Or prettiest _sweet apes_ of humane soules."

From a reference to Queen Elizabeth in Act I., Scene I., it is clear that _Sir Gyles Goosecappe_ was written not later than 1603. The lines I have quoted may have been added later; or our author may have seen the _Gentleman Usher_ in manuscript.

Chapman's influence is again (_me judice_) apparent in the eloquent but somewhat strained language of such a passage as the following:--

"Alas, my noble Lord, he is not rich,
Nor titles hath, nor in his tender cheekes
The standing lake of _Impudence_ corrupts;
Hath nought in all the world, nor nought wood have
To grace him in the prostituted light.
But if a man wood consort with a soule
Where all mans sea of gall and bitternes
Is quite evaporate with her holy flames,
And in whose powers a Dove-like innocence
Fosters her own deserts, and life and death
Runnes hand in hand before them, all the skies
Cleare and transparent to her piercing eyes.
Then wood my friend be something, but till then
A _cipher_, nothing, or the worst of men."

_Sir Gyles Goosecappe_ is the work of one who had chosen the "fallentis semita vitae"; who was more at home in Academic cloisters than in the crowded highways of the world. None of the characters bears any impression of having been drawn from actual life. The plot is of the thinnest possible texture; but the fire of verbal quibbles is kept up with lively ingenuity, and plenty of merriment may be drawn from the humours of the affectate traveller and the foolish knight by all who are not

"of such vinegar aspect
That they'll not show their teeth in way of smile,
Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable."

The romantic friendship between the noble Lord Monford and the thoughtful Clarence is a pleasing study, planned and executed with a grave, sweet sincerity. It is not improbable that Clarence was the prototype of Charles in Fletcher's _Elder Brother_. The finest passage in the present play, where Clarence's modesty and Monford's nobility are portrayed in language of touching charm, was selected by Charles Lamb (whose judgment was never at fault) for quotation in the "Extracts from the Garrick Plays."

A second edition of _Sir Gyles Goosecappe_ was issued, after the author's death, in 1636; and the following dedication was appended by Hugh Perry, the publisher:--

To the Worshipfull RICHARD YOUNG of Woolleyfarme in the County of Berks, Esquire.

WORTHY SIR,

_The many favours, and courtesies, that I have Received from you, and your much Honor'd Father, have put such an obligation upon me, as I have bin long cogitateing how to expresse myselfe by the requitall of some part of them; Now this Play having diverse yeeres since beene thrust into the world to seeke its owne entertainment, without so much as an epistle, or under the Shelter of any generous spirit, is now almost become worne out of memory: and comming to be press'd to the publique view againe, it having none to speake for it (the _Author_ being dead) I am bold to recommend the same to your Worships protection, I know your studies are more propense to more serious subjects, yet vouchsafe, I beseech you, to recreate your selfe with this at some vacant time when your leasure will permit you to peruse it, and daigne mee to bee_,

Your Worships bounden Servant,

HVGH PERRY.

SIR GYLES GOOSECAPPE, _Knight_,

A Comedy presented by the Chil. of the Chappell.

AT LONDON: Printed by _Iohn Windet_, for _Edward Blunt_. 1606.

_Eugenia_, A widowe and a Noble Ladie. _Hippolyta_, | _Penelope_, | Ladie-virgines, and Companions to Eugenia. _Wynnifred_, gentlewoman to Eugenia. _Monford_, A Noble Man, uncle to Eugenia. _Clarence_, Gentleman, friend to _Monf_. _Fowlweather_, A french affected Travayler, and a Captaine. _Sir Gyles Goosecap_, a foolish Knight. _Sir Cuthbert Rudsbie_, a blunt Knight. _Sir Clement Kingcob_, a Knight, _Lord Tales_. _Lord Furnifall_. _Bullaker_, a french Page. _Iack_, | _Will_, | Pages.

Sir Gyles Goosecappe, _Knight_.

_Actvs Primvs_.

SCAENA PRIMA.

_Enter Bullaker with a Torche_.

_Bullaker_. This is the Countesse _Eugenias_ house, I thinke. I can never hit of theis same English City howses, tho I were borne here: if I were in any City in _Fraunce_, I could find any house there at midnight.

_Enter Iack, and Will_.

_Iack_. Theis two strange hungry Knights (_Will_) make the leanest trenchers that ever I waited on.

_Will_. A plague on them _Iack_; they leave us no fees at all, for our attendance. I thinke they use to set their bones in silver they pick them so cleane.--See, see, see, _Iack_, whats that.

_Iack_. A my word (_Will_) tis the great _Baboone_, that was to be seen in _Southwarke_.

_Will_. Is this he? Gods my life what beastes were we, that we wood not see him all this while, never trust me if he looke not somewhat like a man: see how pretely he holds the torche in one of his forefeete: wheres his keeper trowe, is he broke loose?

_Iack_. Hast ever an Apple about thee (_Will_)? Weele take him up; sure, we shall get a monstrous deale of mony with him.

_Will_. That we shall yfath, boy! and looke thou here, heres a red cheeckt apple to take him up with.

_Ia_. Excellent fit a my credit; lets lay downe our provant, and to him.

_Bul_. Ile let them alone a while.

_Ia_. Give me the apple to take up _Iack_, because my name is _Iack_.

_Will_. Hold thee, _Iack_, take it.

_Ia_. Come, _Iack_, come, _Iack_, come, _Iack_.

_Bul_. I will come to you sir, Ile _Iack_ ye a my word, Ile _Iack_ ye.

_Will_. Gods me he speakes, _Iack_. O pray pardon us, Sir.

_Bul_. Out, ye _mopede monckies_, can yee not knowe a man from a _Marmasett_, in theis Frenchified dayes of ours? nay, ile _Iackefie_ you a little better yet.

_Both_. Nay good Sir, good Sir, pardon us.

_Bul_. Pardon us! out ye home-bred peasants, plain English, pardon us? if you had parled, & not spoken, but said _Pardonne moy_, I wood have pardon'd you, but since you speake and not parley, I will cudgell ye better yet.

_Ambo_. _O pardonne moy, mounsieur_.

_Bul_. _Bien je vous remercy_; thers _pardonne four vous_, sir, now.

_Will_. Why I thanke ye for it, Sir; you seeme to bee a Squire of our order Sir.

_Ia_. Whose page might you be Sir.

_Bul_. I am now the great French Travalers page.

_Will_. Or rather the _French_ Travalers great page, Sir; on, on.

_Bul_. Hight Captaine _Fowleweather_, alias Commendations; whose valours within here at super with the Countes _Eugenia_, whose propper eaters I take you two to be.

_Will_. You mistake us not Sir.

_Ia_. This Captaine _Fowleweather_, alias Commendations--

_Will_. Is the Gallant that will needs be a sutor to our Countes.

_Bul_.[1] Faith, and if Fouleweather be a welcome suter to a faire Lady, has good lucke.

_Ia_. O Sir, beware of one that can showre into the lapps of Ladies. Captaine Fowleweather? why hees a Captinado, or Captaine of Captaines, and will lie in their joyntes that give him cause to worke uppon them so heauylie, that he will make their hartes ake I warrant him. Captaine Fowleweather? why he will make the cold stones sweate for feare of him, a day or two before he come at them. Captaine Fowleweather? why he does so dominere, and raigne over women.

_Will_. A plague of Captaine Fowleweather, I remember him now _Iack_, and know him to be a dull moist-braind Asse.

_Ia_. A Southerne man I thinke.

_Will_. As fearefull as a Haire, and will lye like a Lapwing,[2] and I know how he came to be a Captain, and to have his Surname of Commendations.

_Ia_. How I preethee _Will_?

_Will_. Why Sir he served the great Lady Kingcob and was yeoman of her wardroppe, & because a cood brush up her silkes lustely, she thought he would curry the enemies coates as soundly, and so by her commendations, he was made Captaine in the lowe Countries.

_Ia_. Then being made Captaine onely by his Ladies commendations, without any worth also of his owne, he was ever after surnamd Captaine Commendations?

_Will_. Right.

_Bul_. I, Sir right, but if he had not said right, my Captaine should have taken no wrong at his handes, nor yours neyther, I can tell ye.

_Ia_. What are those two Knights names, that are thy Captaines _Comrades_, and within at Supper with our Lady?

_Bul_. One of their names Sir, is, Sir _Gyles Goosecappe_, the others Sir _Cutt Rudseby_.

_Will_. Sir _Gyles Goosecappe_? what's he? a gentleman?

_Bul_. I, that he is, at least if he be not a noble man; and his chiefe house is in Essex.

_Ia_. In Essex? did not his Auncestors come out of London.

_Bul_. Yes that they did Sir, the best _Gosecappes_ in England, come out of London I assure you.

_Will_. I, but, Sir, these must come into it before they come out ont I hope; but what countriman is Sir _Cutt Rudesby_?

_Bul_. A Northern man, or a Westernman I take him, but my Captaine is the Emphaticall man; and by that pretty word Emphaticall you shall partly know him: for tis a very forcible word in troth, and yet he forces it too much by his favour; mary no more then he does all the rest of his wordes; with whose multiplicity often times he travailes himselfe out of all good company.

_Iack_. Like enough; he travaild for nothing else.

_Will_. But what qualities haunt Sir _Gyles Goosecappe_ now Sir.

_Bul_. Sir _Gyles Goosecap_ has always a deathes head (as it were) in his mouth, for his onely one reason for everything is, because we are all mortall; and therefore he is generally cald the mortall Knight; then hath he another pretty phrase too, and that is, he will "tickle the vanity ant" still in everything; and this is your _Summa totalis_ of both their virtues.

_Ia_. Tis enough, tis enough, as long as they have land enough, but now muster your third person afore us I beseech you.

_Bul_. The third person and second Knight, blunt Sir _Cutt Rudesby_, is indeed blunt at a sharpe wit, and sharpe at a blunt wit; a good bustling Gallant, talkes well at Rovers; he is two parts souldier; as slovenlie as a Switzer, and somewhat like one in face too; for he weares a bush beard, will dead a Cannan shot better then a wool-packe: he will come into the presence like yor _Frenchman_ in foule bootes, and dares eat Garlike as a preparative to his Courtship. You shall know more of him hereafter; but, good wags, let me winne you now for the Geographicall parts of your Ladies in requitall.

_Will_. That you shall Sir, and the Hydrographicall too and you will; first my Lady the widowe, and Countes _Eugenia_, is in earnest, a most worthy Lady, and indeede can doe more than a thousand other Ladies can doe I can tell you.

_Bul_. What's that I pray thee?

_Ia_. Mary Sir, he meanes she can doe more than sleepe, and eate, and drinke; and play at noddy[3], and helpe to make hir selfe ready[4].

_Bul_. Can she so?

_Will_. She is the best scholler of any woman but one[5] in England; she is wise and vertuous.

_Ia_. Nay she has one strange quality for a woman besides, tho these be strange enough that he has rekoned.

_Bul_. For Gods sake whats that?

_Ia_. She can love reasonable constantly, for she loved her husband only, almost a whole yeere together.

_Bul_. Thats strange indeed, but what is your faire Lady Sir?

_Ia_. My Lady Sir, the Lady _Hippolita_--

_Will_. That is as chast as ever was _Hippolitus_.

_Ia_. (True, my prety _Parenthesis_) is halfe a maid, halfe a wife, and halfe a widdow.

_Bul_. Strange tale to tell; how canst thou make this good, my good _Assumpsit_.

_Ia_. Thus Sir: she was betroathed to a gallant young gentleman that loude hir with such passion, and admiration that he never thought he could be so blessed as to enjoy her in full marriage, till the minister was marrying them; and even then when he was saying I _Charles_ take thee _Hippolita_ with extreame joy, he began to looke pale, then going forwards saying, to my wedded wife, he lookt paler, and, then pronouncing, for richer for poorer as long as we both shall live, he lookt extreame pale. Now, sir, when she comes to speake her parte, and said, I _Hippolyta_ take thee _Charles_, he began to faint for joy, then saying to my wedded husband, he began to sinke, but then going forth too, for better for worse, he could stand no longer, but with very conceit, it seemd, that she whom he tendred as the best of all things, should pronounce the worst, and for his sake too, he suncke down right, and died sodenly: And thus being halfe married, and her halfe husband wholy dead, I hope I may with discretion affirme her, halfe a maide, halfe a wife, and halfe a widdowe: do ye conceive me Sir?

_Bul_. O Lord Sir, I devoure you quicke; and now Sir I beseech you open unto me your tother Lady, what is shee?

_Will_. Ile answere for her, because I know her Ladiship to be a perfect maide indeed.

_Bul_. How canst thou know that?

_Will_. Passing perfectly I warrant ye.

_Ia_. By measuring her necke twice, and trying if it will come about hir forehead, and slip over her nose?

_Will_. No Sir no, by a rule that will not slip so I warrant you, which for her honours sake I will let slip unto you. Gods so _Iack_, I thinke they have supt.

_Ia_. Bir Lady we have waited well the while.

_Will_. Well though they have lost their attendance, let not us lose our supper, _Iack_.

_Ia_. I doe not meane it; come Sir you shall goe in, and drinke with us yfaith.

_Bul_. _Pardonne moy, mounsieur_.

_both_. No pardoning in truth Sir.

_Bul. Ie vous remercie de bon Ceur_.

[_Exeunt_.

SCAENA 2.

_Enter Goosecappe, Rudesby, Fouleweather, Eugenia,
Hippol., Penelope, Wynne_.

_Rud_. A plague on you, sweet Ladies, tis not so late; what needed you to have made so short a supper?

_Goos_. In truth Sir _Cutt_. we might have tickled the vanity ant an howre longer, if my watch be trustible.

_Foul_. I but how should theis beauties know that Sir _Gyles_? your watch is mortall, and may erre.

_Go_. Thats sooth Captaine, but doe you heare honest friend, pray take a light, and see if the moone shine, I have a Sunne Diall will resolue presently.

_Fo_. Howsoever beleeve it, Ladies, tis unwholesome, uncourtly, unpleasant to eate hastely, and rise sodainly; a man can shew no discourse, no witt, no stirring, no variety, no pretty conceits, to make the meate goe downe emphatically.

_Eu_. _Wynnefred_.

_Wyn_. Madam.

_Eu_. I prethee goe to my uncle the Lord _Monford_, and intreat him to come quicken our Eares with some of his pleasant Spirit; This same _Fowleweather_ has made me so melancholly, prethie make haste.

_Wyn_. I will Madam. [_Exit_.

_Hip_. We will bid our guests good night, Madam; this same _Fowleweather_ makes me so sleepy.

_Pen_. Fie uppon it; for Gods sake shut the Casements, heres such a fulsome Aire comes into this Chamber; in good faith Madame you must keepe your House in better reparations, this same _Fowlweather_ beats in so filthily.

_Eug_. Ile take order with the Porter for it, Lady: good night, gentlemen.

_Ru_. Why good night, and be hangd, and you'l needs be gon.

_Goos_. God give you good night Madams, thanke you for my good cheere, weele tickle the vanity ant no longer with you at this time but ile indite your La. to supper at my lodging one of these mornings; and that ere long too, because we are all mortall you know.

_Eu_, Light the Lady _Penelope_, and the Lady _Hippolyta_ to their Chambers; good night faire Ladies.

_Hip_. Good night, Madam; I wish you may sleep well after your light supper.

_Eug_, I warrant you, Lady, I shall never be troubled with dreaming of my _French_ Suter. [_Exeunt_.

_Ru_. Why how now my _Frenchified_ captain _Fowlweather_? by Cods ludd thy Surname is never thought upon here, I perceive heeres nobody gives thee any commendations.

_Fo_. Why this is the untravaild rudnes of our grose Englesh Ladies now; would any _French_ Lady use a man thus thinke ye? be they any way so uncivill, and fulsome? they say they weare fowle smockes, and course smockes; I say they lie, and I will die int.

_Rud_. I, doe so, pray thee, thou shalt die in a very honorable cause, thy countries generall quarrell right.

_Foul_. Their smockes, quoth you? a my word you shall take them up so white, and so pure, so sweet, so Emphaticall, so mooving--

_Rud_. I marry Sir, I thinke they be continually moving.

_Foul_. But if their smockes were course or foule.

_Rud_. Nay I warrant thee thou carest not, so thou wert at them.

_Foul_. S'death they put not all their virtues in their smockes, or in their mockes, or in their stewde cockes as our Ladies doe.

_Rud_. But in their stewd pox, thers all their gentilitie.

_Goos_. Nay, good Sir _Cutt_., doe not agravate him no more.

_Foul_. Then they are so kinde, so wise, so familiar, so noble, so sweet in entertainment, that when you shall have cause to descourse or sometimes to come neerer them; if your breath be ill, your teeth ill, or any thing about you ill, why they will presently breake with ye, in kinde sort, good termes, pretty experiments, and tell you plaine this; thus it is with your breath, Sir, thus it is with your teeth, Sir, this is your disease, and this is your medicine.

_Goos_. As I am true mortall Knight, it is most superlatively good, this.

_Foul_. Why this is courtly now, this is sweete, this plaine, this is familiar, but by the Court of _France_, our peevish dames are so proud, so precise, so coy, so disdainfull, and so subtill, as the _Pomonian_ Serpent, _mort dieu_ the Puncke of _Babylon_ was never so subtill.

_Rud_. Nay, doe not chafe so, Captaine.

_Foul_. Your _Frenchman_ would ever chafe, sir _Cutt_., being thus movde.

_Rud_. What? and play with his beard so?

_Foul_. I and brystle, it doth expresse that passion of anger very full, and emphaticall.

_Goos_: Nay good Knight if your _French_ wood brystle, let him alone, in troth our Ladies are a little too coy, and subtill, Captaine, indeed.

_Foul_. Subtill, sir _Gyles Goosecappe_? I assure your soule, they are as subtill with their suters, or loves, as the latine Dialect, where the nominative Case, and the Verbe, the Substantive, and the Adjective, the Verbe, and the [ad]Verbe, stand as far a sunder, as if they were perfect strangers one to another, and you shall hardly find them out; but then learne to Conster, and perse them, and you shall find them prepared and acquainted, and agree together in Case, gender, and number.

_Goos_. I detest[6], Sir _Cutt_, I did not thinke he had bin halfe the quintessence of a scholler he is.

_Foul_. Slydd there's not one of them truely emphaticall.

_Goos_. Yes, I'le ensure you Captaine, there are many of them truely emphaticall: but all your _French_ Ladies are not fatt? are they sir?

_Foul_. Fatt sir? why doe ye thinke emphaticall is fatt, sir _Gyles_?

_Rud_. Gods my life, brother Knight, didst thou thinke so? hart I know not what it is my selfe, but yet I never thought it was fatt, Ile be sworne to thee.

_Foul_. Why if any true Courtly dame had had but this new fashioned sute, to entertaine anything indifferently stuffed, why you should have had her more respective by farre.

_Rud_. Nay, theres some reason for that, Captaine, me thinks a true woman should perpetually doate upon a new fashion.

_Foul_. Why y'are i'thright sir _Cutt. In nova fert animus mutatas dicere formas_[7]. Tis the mind of man, and woman to affect new fashions; but to our Mynsatives[8] for sooth, if he come like to your _Besognio_,[9] or your bore, so he be rich, or emphaticall, they care not; would I might never excell a dutch Skipper in Courtship, if I did not put distaste into my cariage of purpose; I knew I should not please them. _Lacquay? allume le torche_.

_Rud_. Slydd, heres neyther Torch, nor Lacquay, me thinks.

_Foul_. _O mon dieu_.

_Rud_. O doe not sweare Captaine.

_Foul_. Your Frenchman ever sweares, Sir _Cutt_, upon the lacke of his Lacquay, I assure you.

_Goos_. See heere he comes, and my Ladies two pages, they have been tickling the vanity ont yfaith.

SCAENA TERTIA.

_Enter to them Iack, Bullaker, Will_.

_Ia_. Captaine _Fowleweather_, my Lady the Countes _Eugenia_ commends her most kindly to you, and is determined to morrowe morning earely, if it be a frost, to take her Coach to Barnet to bee nipt; where if it please you, to meete her, and accompany her homewarde, joyning your wit with the frost, and helpe to nip her, She does not doubt but tho you had a sad supper, you will have a joyfull breakefast.

_Foul_. I shall indeed, my deare youth.

_Rud_. Why Captaine I abus'd thee, I see: I said the Ladies respected thee not, and now I perceive the widow is in love with thee.

_Foul_. Sblood, Knight, I knew I had strucke her to the quicke, I wondred shee departed in that extravagant fashion: I am sure I past one _Passado_ of Courtship upon her, that has hertofore made a lane amongst the _French_ Ladies like a Culvering shot, Ile be sworne; and I thinke, Sir _Gyles_, you saw she fell under it.

_Goos_. O as cleare as candlelight, by this daylight.

_Rud_. O good Knight a the post[10], heele sweare anything.

_Will_. The other two Ladies commend them no lesse kindly to you two Knights too; & desire your worships wood meete them at Barnet ith morning with the Captaine.

_Foul. Goos. Rud_. O good Sir.

_Goos_. Our worships shall attend their Ladiships thether.

_Ia_. No Sir _Gyles_ by no meanes, they will goe privately thether, but if you will meet them there.

_Rud_. Meet them? weele die fort, but weele meet them.

_Foul_. Let's goe thether to night, Knights, and you be true Gallants.

_Rud_. Content.

_Ia_. How greedely they take it in, Sirra?

_Goos_. No it is too farre to goe to night, weele be up betimes ith morning, and not goe to bedd at all.

_Foul_. Why its but ten miles, and a fine cleere night, sir _Gyles_.

_Goos_. But ten miles? what do ye talke, Captaine?

_Rud_. Why? doost thinke its any more?

_Goos_. I, Ile lay ten pounds its more than ten miles, or twelve eyther.

_Rud_. What, to _Barnet_.

_Goos_. I, to _Barnet_.

_Rud_. Slydd, Ile lay a hundred pound with thee, if thou wilt.

_Goos_. Ile lay five hundred, to a hundred. Slight I will not be outborne with a wager, in that I know: I am sure it was foure yeeres agon ten miles thether, and I hope tis more now. Slydd doe not miles grow thinke you, as well as other _Animals_?

_Ia_. O wise Knight!

_Goos_. I never innd in the Towne but once, and then they lodged me in a Chamber so full of these Ridiculous Fleas, that I was fain to lie standing all night, and yet I made my man rise, and put out the Candle too, because they should not see to bite me.

_Foul_. A pretty project.

_Bul_. Intruth Captaine, if I might advise you, you should tarry, and take the morning afore you.

_Foul_. How? _O mon Dieu_! how the villaine _poultroune_, dishonours his travaile! You _Buffonly Mouchroun_, are you so mere rude, and English to advise your Captaine?

_Rud_. Nay, I prethee _Fouleweather_, be not tempesteous with thy poore Lacquay.

_Foul_. Tempesteous, Sir _Cutt_? will your _Frenchman_, thinke you, suffer his Lacquay to advise him?

_Goos_. O God you must take heed Lacquy how you advise your Captaine; your French lacquay would not have done it.

_Foul_. He would have bin poxt first. _Allume le torche_, sweet Pages commend us to your Ladies, say we kisse their white hands, and will not faile to meete them; Knights, which of you leades?

_Goos_. Not wee, sir; you are a Captaine, and a leader.

_Rud_. Besides, thou art commended for the better man, for thou art very Commendations it selfe, and Captaine Commendations.

_Foul_. Why? what tho I be Captain Commendations?

_Rud_. Why and Captaine Commendations, is harty commendations, for Captaines are harty I am sure, or else hang them.

_Foul_. Why, what if I be harty Commendations? come, come, sweete Knights, lead the way.

_Rud_. O Lorde Sir, alwayes after my harty Commendations.

_Foul_. Nay then you conquer me with precedent, by the autenticall forme of all Iustice letters. [_Alloun. Exeunt_.

_Ia_. Here's a most sweet Gudgeon swallowed, is there not?

_Will_. I but how will they disgest it, thinkest thou when they shall finde our Ladies not there?

_Ia_. I have a vaunt-currying[11] devise shall make them digest it most healthfully.

[_Exeunt_.

SCENA QUARTA.

_Enter Clarence, Musicians_.

_Cla_. Worke on, sweet love; I am not yet resolved T'exhaust this troubled spring of vanities And Nurse of perturbations, my poore life, And therefore since in every man that holds This being deare, there must be some desire, Whose power t'enjoy his object may so maske The judging part, that in her radyant eyes His estimation of the World may seeme Vpright, and worthy, I have chosen love To blind my Reason with his misty hands And make my estimative power beleive I have a project worthy to imploy What worth so ever my whole man affordes: Then sit at rest, my soule, thou now hast found The end of thy infusion; in the eyes Of thy divine _Eugenia_ looke for Heaven. Thanks gentle friends. [_A song to the Violls_. Is your good Lord, and mine, gon up to bedd yet?

_Enter Momford_.

_Mom_. I do assure ye not, sir, not yet, nor yet, my deepe, and studious friend; not yet, musicall _Clarence_.

_Cla_. My Lord?

_Mom_. Nor yet, thou sole divider of my Lordshippe.

_Cla_. That were a most unfit division, And farre above the pitch of my low plumes; I am your bold, and constant guest my Lord.

_Mom_. Far, far from bold, for thou hast known me long Almost these twenty yeeres, and halfe those yeeres Hast bin my bed-fellow; long time before This unseene thing, this thing of naught indeed, Or _Atome_ cald my Lordshippe shind in me, And yet thou mak'st thy selfe as little bould To take such kindnes, as becomes the Age And truth of our indissolable love, As our acquaintance sprong but yesterday; Such is thy gentle, and too tender spirit.

_Cla_. My _Lord_, my want of Courtship makes me feare I should be rude, and this my meane estate Meetes with such envie, and detraction, Such misconstructions and resolud misdoomes Of my poore worth, that should I be advaunce'd Beyond my unseene lowenes, but one haire, I should be torne in peeces with the Spirits That fly in ill-lungd tempests through the world, Tearing the head of vertue from her shoulders If she but looke out of the ground of glorie. Twixt whom and me, and every worldly fortune There fights such sowre, and curst _Antipathy_, So waspish and so petulant a Starre, That all things tending to my grace or good Are ravisht from their object, as I were A thing created for a wildernes, And must not thinke of any place with men.

_Mom_. O harke you Sir, this waiward moode of yours Must sifted be, or rather rooted out. Youle no more musick Sir?

_Cla_. Not now, my Lord.

_Mom_. Begon my masters then to bedd, to bedd.

_Cla_. I thanke you, honest friends.

[_Exeunt Musicians_.

_Mo_. Hence with this book, and now, _Mounsieur Clarence_, me thinks plaine and prose friendship would do excellent well betwixt us: come thus, Sir, or rather thus, come. Sir, tis time I trowe that we both liv'd like one body, thus, and that both our sides were slit, and concorporat with _Organs_ fit to effect an individuall passage even for our very thoughts; suppose we were one body now, and I charge you beleeve it; whereof I am the hart, and you the liver.

_Cla_. Your Lordship might well make that division[12], if you knew the plaine song.

_Mo_. O Sir, and why so I pray?

_Cla_. First because the heart, is the more worthy entraile, being the first that is borne, and moves, and the last that moves, and dies; and then being the Fountaine of heate too: for wheresoever our heate does not flow directly from the hart to the other _Organs_ there, their action must of necessity cease, and so without you I neither would nor could live.

_Mom_. Well Sir, for these reasons I may be the heart, why may you be the liver now?

_Cla_. I am more then asham'd, to tell you that my _Lord_.

_Mom_. Nay, nay, be not too suspitious of my judgement in you I beseech you: asham'd friend? if your love overcome not that shame, a shame take that love, I saie. Come sir, why may you be the liver?

_Cla_. The plaine, and short truth is (my _Lord_) because I am all liver, and turn'd lover.

_Mom_. Lover?

_Cla_. Lover, yfaith my _Lord_.

_Mom_. Now I prethee let me leape out of my skin for joy: why thou wilt not now revive the sociable mirth of thy sweet disposition? wilt thou shine in the World anew? and make those that have sleighted thy love with the Austeritie of thy knowledge, dote on thee againe with thy commanding shaft of their humours?

_Cla_. Alas, my Lord, they are all farre out of my aime; and only to fit my selfe a little better to your friendshippe, have I given these wilfull raynes to my affections.

_Mom_. And yfaith is my sower friend to all worldly desires ouer taken with the hart of the World, Love? I shall be monstrous proud now, to heare shees every way a most rare woman, that I know thy spirit, and judgement hath chosen; is she wise? is she noble? is she capable of thy vertues? will she kisse this forehead with judiciall lipps where somuch judgement and vertue deserves it? Come brother Twin, be short, I charge you, and name me the woman.

_Cla_. Since your Lordship will shorten the length of my follies relation, the woman that I so passionately love, is no worse Lady then your owne Neece, the too worthy Countesse _Eugenia_.

_Mom_. Why so, so, so, you are a worthy friend, are you not, to conceale this love-mine in your head, and would not open it to your hart? now beshrow my hart, if my hart danse not for joy, tho my heeles do not; and they doe not, because I will not set that at my heeles that my friend sets at his heart? friend, and Nephews both? nephew is a far inferior title to friend I confesse, but I will preferre thee backwards (as many friends doe) and leave their friends woorse then they found them.

_Cla_. But, my noble Lord, it is almost a prodegie, that I being onely a poore Gentleman, and farre short of that state and wealth that a Ladie of her greatnesse in both will expect in her husband--

_Mom_. Hold thy doubt friend, never feare any woman, unlesse thyselfe be made of straw, or some such drie matter, and she of lightning. _Audacitie_ prospers above probability in all Worldly matters. Dost not thou know that Fortune governes them without order, and therefore reason the mother of order is none of her counsaile? why should a man desiring to aspire an unreasonable creature, which is a woman, seeke her fruition by reasonable meanes? because thy selfe binds upon reason, wilt thou looke for congruity in a woman? why? there is not one woman amongst one thousand, but will speake false _Latine_, and breake _Priscians_ head. Attempt nothing that you may with great reason doubt of and out of doubt you shall obtaine nothing. I tell thee, friend, the eminent confidence of strong spirits is the onely witch-craft of this World, Spirits wrastling with spirits as bodies with bodies: this were enough to make thee hope well, if she were one of these painted communities, that are ravisht with Coaches, and upper hands,[13] and brave men of durt: but thou knowest friend shees a good scholler, and like enough to bite at the rightest reason, and reason evermore _Ad optima hortatur_: to like that which is best, not that which is bravest, or rightest, or greatest, and so consequently worst. But prove what shee can, wee will turne her, and winde her, and make her so plyant, that we will drawe her thorugh a wedding ring yfaith.

_Cla_. Would to God we might, my Lord.

_Mom_. He warrant thee, friend.

_Enter Messenger_.

_Mes_. Here is Mistris _Wynnifred_ from my Lady _Eugenia_ desires to speake with your Lordshippe.

_Mom_. Marrie, enter, Mistris _Wynnifred_, even here I pray thee;--from the Lady _Eugenia_, doe you heare, friend?

_Cla_. Very easily on that side, my Lord.

_Mom_. Let me feele. Does not thy heart pant apace? by my hart, well labor'd _Cupid_, the field is yours, sir. God! and upon a very honourable composition. I am sent for now I am sure, and must even trusse, and to her.

_Enter Wynnifred_.

Witty Mistris _Wynnifred_, nay come neere, woman. I am sure this Gentleman thinkes his Chamber the sweeter for your deare presence.

_Wyn_. My absence shall thanke him, my Lord.

_Mom_. What, rude? Mistris _Wynnifred_? nay faith you shall come to him, and kisse him, for his kindenesse.

_Wyn_. Nay good, my Lord, I'le never goe to the market for that ware, I can have it brought home to my Dore.

_Mom_. O _Wynnifred_, a man may know by the market-folkes how the market goes.

_Wyn_. So you may, my Lord, but I know few Lords that thinke scorne to go to that market themselves.

_Mom_. To goe to it _Wynnifred_? nay to ride to it yfaith.

_Wyn_. Thats more then I know my Lord.

_Mom_. Youle not beleeve it till you are then a horsebacke, will ye?

_Wyn_. Come, come, I am sent of a message to you, will you heare it?

_Mom_. Stoppe, stoppe, faire _Wynnifred_, would you have audience so soone, there were no state in that yfaith. This faire gentlewoman sir--

_Wyn_. Now we shall have a fiction I beleive.

_Mom_. Had three Suiters at once.

_Wyn_. Youle leave out none my Lord.

_Mom_. No more did you, _Wynnifred_: you enterferde with them all in truth.

_Wyn_. O Monstrous Lord by this light!

_Mom_. Now sir to make my tale short I will doe that which she did not; vz. leave out the two first. The third comming, the third night for his turne--

_Wyn_. My Lord, my Lord, my Lady does that that no body else does, desires your company; and so fare you well.

_Mom_. O stay a little sweet _Wynnifred_, helpe me but to trusse my Poynts againe, and have with you.

_Wyn_. Not I by my truth my Lord, I had rather see your hose about your heeles, then I would helpe you to trusse a poynt.

_Mom_. O witty _Wynnifred_? for that jest, take thy passeport, and tell thy Ladie[14], thou leftst me with my hose about my heeles.

_Wyn_. Well, well my Lord you shall sit till the mosse grow about your heeles, ere I come at you againe. [_Exit_.

_Mom_. She cannot abide to heare of her three Suiters, but is not this very fit my sweet _Clarence_? Thou seest my rare Neece cannot sleepe without me; but for thy company sake, she shall to night; and in the morning I will visit her earely; when doe thou but stand in that place, and thou maiest chance heare (but art sure to see) in what subtill, and farre-fetcht manner Ile solicite her about thee.

_Cla_. Thank's, worthy Lord.

[_Exeunt_.

_Finis Actus Primi_.

_Actvs Secvndi_.

SCENA PRIMA.

_Clarence Solus_.

_Cla_. I that have studied with world-skorning thoughts The way of Heaven, and how trew Heaven is reacht To know how mighty, and how many are The strange affections of enchaunted number; How to distinguish all the motions Of the Celestiall bodies, and what power Doth separate in such forme this massive Rownd; What is his Essence, Efficacies, Beames, Foot-steps, and Shadowes; what Eternesse[15] is, The World, and Time, and Generation; What Soule, the worlds Soule is, what the blacke Springs And unreveald Originall of Things, What their perseverance; what's life, and death, And what our certaine Restauration; Am with the staid-heads of this Time imploy'd To watch with all my Nerves a Female shade.

_Enter Wynnifred, Anabell, with their sowing workes
and sing: After their song Enter Lord Momford_.

_Mom_. Witty Mistrisse _Wynnifred_, where is your Countesse, I pray?

_Wyn_. Faith your Lordship is bould enough to seeke her out, if she were at her urinall?

_Mom_. Then sh'as done, it seemes, for here she comes to save me that labour; away, wenches, get you hence wenches. [_Exeunt_.

_Eu_. What, can you not abide my maides, unkle?

_Mom_. I never cood abide a maide in my life Neece, but either I draw away the maide, or the maidenhead with a wet finger[16].

_Eug_. You love to make your selfe worse then you are still.

_Mom_. I know few mend in this World, Madam. For the worse the better thought on, the better the worse spoken on ever amongst women.

_Eu_. I wonder where you have binne all this while with your sentences.

_Mom_. Faith where I must be againe presently. I cannot stay long with you my deere Neece.

_Eu_. By my faith but you shall, my Lord. Cods pittie what will become of you shortly, that you drive maids afore you, and offer to leave widowes behind you, as mankindelie as if you had taken a surfet of our Sex lately, and our very sight turnd your stomacke?

_Mom_. Cods my life, she abuses her best unkle; never trust me if it were not a good revenge to helpe her to the losse of her widow-head.

_Eu_. That were a revenge, and a halfe, indeed.

_Mom_. Nay twere but a whole revenge Neece, but such a revenge as would more then observe the true rule of a revenger.

_Eu_. I know your rule before you utter it, _Vlciscere inimico_ [sic] _sed sine tuo incommodo_.

_Mom_. O rare Neece, you may see, what tis to be a scholler now; learning in a woman is like waight in gold, or luster in Diamants, which in no other Stone is so rich or refulgent.

_Eug_. But say deere Vnckle how could you finde in your heart to stay so long from me?

_Mom_. Why, alas Neece, y'are so smeard with this willfull widdows three-yeeres blacke weede, that I never come to you, but I dreame of Coarses, and Sepulchres, and Epitaphs, all the night after, and therefore adew deere Neece.

_Eug_. Beshrew my heart my Lord, if you goe theis three houres.

_Mom_. Three houres? nay Neece, if I daunce attendance three hours (alone in her Chamber) with any Lady so neere alide to me, I am very idle yfaith--Mary with such an other I would daunce, one, two, three, foure, and five, tho it cost me ten shillings. And now I am in, have at it! my head must devise something, while my feet are pidling thus, that may bring her to some fit consideration of my friend, who indeed is onely a great scholler, and all his honours, and riches lie in his minde.

_Eu_. Come, come, pray tell me uncle, how does my cosen _Momford_?

_Mom_. Why, well, very well Neece, and so is my friend _Clarence_ well too, and then is there a worthy gentleman well as any is in England I can tell ye. [_He daunceth speaking_.

_Eug_. But when did you see my Cosen?

_Mom_. And tis pitty but he should do well, and he shall be well too, if all my wealth will make him well.

_Eug_. What meanes he by this, tro? your Lord is very dancitive me thinkes.

_Mom_. I, and I could tell you a thing would make your Ladyship very dancitive, or else it were very dunsative yfaith. O how the skipping of this Christmas blocke of ours moves the block-head heart of a woman and indeed any thing that pleaseth the foolish eye which presently runnes with a lying tale of Excellence to the minde.

_Eug_. But I pray tell me my Lord could you tell me of a thing would make me dance say you?

_Mom_. Well, farewell sweet Neece, I must needs take my leave in earnest.

_Eu_. Lord blesse us, heres such a stir with your farewels.

_Mom_. I will see you againe within these two or three dayes a my word Neece.

_Eug_. Cods pretious, two or three dayes? why this Lord is in a maruallous strange humor. Sit downe, sweet Vnkle; yfaith I have to talke with you about greate matters.

_Mom_. Say then deere Neece, be short utter your minde quickly now.

_Eug_. But I pray tell me first, what's that would make me daunce yfaith?

_Mom_. Daunce, what daunce? hetherto your dauncers legges bow for-sooth, and Caper, and jerke, and Firke, and dandle the body above them, as it were their great childe; though the speciall jerker be above this place I hope here lies that shud fetch a perfect woman over the Coles yfaith.

_Eug_. Nay good Vnkle say what's the thing you could tell me of?

_Mom_. No matter, no matter: But let me see a passing prosperous fore-head of an exceeding happy distance betwixt the eye browes; a cleere lightning eye; a temperate, and fresh bloud in both the cheekes: excellent markes, most excellent markes of good fortune.

_Eug_. Why, how now Vnkle did you never see me before?

_Mom_. Yes Neece; but the state of these things at this instant must be specially observed, and these outward signes being now in this cleere elevation, show your untroubled minde is in an excellent power, to preferre them to act forth then a little, deere Neece.

_Eug_. This is excellent.

_Mom_. The Crises here are excellent good; The proportion of the chin good; the little aptness of it to sticke out good; and the wart above it most exceeding good. Never trust me, if all things be not answerable to the prediction of a most Divine fortune towards her; now if she have the grace to apprehend it in the nicke; thers all.

_Eug_. Well my Lord, since you will not tell me your secret, ile keepe another from you; with whose discovery, you may much pleasure me, and whose concealement may hurt my estate. And if you be no kinder then to see me so indangered; ile be very patient of it, I assure you.

_Mom_. Nay then it must instantly foorth. This kinde conjuration even fires it out of me; and (to be short) gather all your judgment togeather, for here it comes. Neece, _Clarence, Clarence_, rather my soule then my friend _Clarence_, of too substantiall a worth, to have any figures cast about him (notwithstanding, no other woman with Empires could stirre his affections) is with your vertues most extreamely in love; and without your requitall dead. And with it Fame shall sound this golden disticke through the World of you both.

_Non illo melior quisquam, nec amantior aequi
Vir fuit, aut illa reverentior ulla Deorum_[17].

_Eug_. Ay me poore Dame, O you amase me Vncle, Is this the wondrous fortune you presage? What man may miserable women trust?

_Mom_. O peace good Lady, I come not to ravish you to any thing. But now I see how you accept my motion: I perceive (how upon true triall) you esteeme me. Have I rid all this Circuite to levie the powers of your Iudgment, that I might not proove their strength too sodainly with so violent a charge; And do they fight it out in white bloud, and show me their hearts in the soft Christall of teares?

_Eug_. O uncle you have wounded your selfe in charging me that I should shun Iudgement as a monster, if it would not weepe; I place the poore felicity of this World in a woorthy friend, and to see him so unworthily revolted, I shed not the teares of my Brayne, but the teares of my soule. And if ever nature made teares th'effects of any worthy cause, I am sure I now shed them worthily.

_Mom_. Her sensuall powers are up yfaith, I have thrust her soule quite from her Tribunall. This is her _Sedes vacans_ when her subjects are priviledged to libell against her, and her friends. But weeps my kinde Neece for the wounds of my friendship? And I toucht in friendship for wishing my friend doubled in her singular happinesse?

_Eug_. How am I doubl'd? when my honour, and good name, two essentiall parts of me; would bee lesse, and loste?

_Mom_. In whose Iudgment?

_Eug_. In the judgment of the World.

_Mom_. Which is a fooles boult. _Nihil a virtute nec a veritate remotius, quàm vulgaris opinio_: But my deare Neece, it is most true that your honour, and good name tendred, as they are the species of truth, are worthily two esentiall parts of you; But as they consist only in ayrie titles, and corrupteble bloud (whose bitternes _sanitas & non nobilitas efficit_) and care not how many base, and execrable acts they commit, they touch you no more then they touch eternity. And yet shall no nobility you have in eyther, be impaired neither.

_Eug_. Not to marry a poore Gentleman?

_Mom_. Respect him not so; for as he is a Gentleman he is noble; as he is wealthily furnished with true knowledge, he is rich, and therein adorn'd with the exactest complements belonging to everlasting noblenesse.

_Eug_. Which yet will not maintaine him a weeke: Such kinde of noblenesse gives no cotes of honour nor can scarse gette a cote for necessity.

_Mom_. Then is it not substantiall knowledge (as it is in him) but verball, and fantasticall for _Omnia in illa ille complexu tenet_.

_Eug_. Why seekes he me then?

_Mom_. To make you joynt partners with him in all things, and there is but a little partiall difference betwixt you, that hinders that universall joynture: The bignesse of this circle held too neere our eye keepes it from the whole Spheare of the Sun; but could we sustaine it indifferently betwixt us, and it would then without checke of one beame appeare in his fulnes.

_Eug_. Good Vnckle be content, for now shall I never dreame of contentment.

_Mom_. I have more then done Lady, and had rather have suffer'd an alteration of my being, then of your Judgment; but (deere Neece) for your own honours sake repaire it instantly.

_Enter Hippolyta. Penelope. Iacke. Will_.

See heere comes the Ladies; make an Aprill day on't[18], deare love, and bee sodainly cheerefull. God save you, more then faire Ladies, I am glad your come, for my busines will have me gone presently.

_Hip_. Why my Lord _Momford_ I say? will you goe before Dinner?

_Mom_. No remedy, sweet Beauties, for which rudnesse I lay my hands thus low for your pardons.

_Pen_. O Courteous Lo. _Momford_![19]

_Mom_. Neece?----_Mens est quae sola quietos,
Sola facit claros, mentemque honoribus ornat_.[20]

_Eug_. _Verus honos juvat, at mendax infamia terret_.[21]

_Mom_. Mine owne deare nephew?

_Cla_. What successe my Lord?

_Mom_. Excellent; excellent; come Ile tell thee all.--_Exeunt_.

_Hip_. Doe you heare Madam, how our youthes here have guld our three suiters?

_Eug_. Not I, Lady; I hope our suiters are no fit meat for our Pages.

_Pe_. No Madam, but they are fit sawce for any mans meat, Ile warrent them.

_Eug_. What's the matter _Hippolyta_?

_Hip_. They have sent the Knights to _Barnet_, Madam, this frosty morning to meet us there.

_Eug_. I'st true, youths? are Knights fit subjects for your knaveries?

_Will_. Pray pardon us, Madam, we would be glad to please anie body.

_Ia_. I indeed, Madam, and we were sure we pleased them highly, to tell them you were desirous of their company.

_Hip_. O t'was good, _Eugenia_, their livers were too hot, you know, and for temper sake they must needs have a cooling carde[22] plaid upon them.

_Wil_. And besides Madam we wood have them know that your two little Pages, which are lesse by halfe then two leaves, have more learning in them then is in all their three volumnes.

_Ia_. I yfaith _Will_, and put their great pagicall index to them, too.

_Hip_. But how will ye excuse your abuses, wags?